


(without) the friction of your touch

by jacksabs



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Frottage, Humiliation, M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Content, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 07:52:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15044198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacksabs/pseuds/jacksabs
Summary: Brady can’t count the amount of times he’s regretted jerking himself off to long thick fingers on his hips, bruising and biting kisses, slick freckled skin pressed to his, and his own brother telling him just where he wants him.





	(without) the friction of your touch

**Author's Note:**

> fuck

It’s so obvious - so fucking obvious - in the ways they look at each other, touch each other, speak to each other, that there’s something beyond the Tkachuk brothers being just, well, _brothers_. 

It’s not like it happens suddenly. That’s not the case at fucking all. Of course not. 

Matt just goes off on a limb and makes a joke, a terrible fucking joke. It isn’t funny, like, it really isn’t. 

Because he’s sprawled out in Brady’s spot on the couch - Family Feud playing on the TV, god knows why - and of course Brady doesn’t take it. He never takes shit from Matt. Because being the younger one never stops him and, even with sibling rivalries aside, that goddamn spot is his and he’s gonna take it.

Through his bitching and moaning, reducing himself to draw out as much respect from Matt as a toddler would, he doesn’t win. He doesn’t get his spot. And at this point he’s just being petty. At this point, he’ll resort to punching Matt if he has to. He wants to. 

Especially after Matt curls his lips into a sly grin and tells him to _come sit on daddy’s lap_. 

Good-natured or not, Brady’s blood goes cold.

Usually he can pull together some kind of a chirp, anything, something other than a simple _fuck you_.

But that’s all he gets out before he storms up to his room.

[]

Brady can’t count the amount of times he’s regretted jerking himself off to long thick fingers on his hips, bruising and biting kisses, slick freckled skin pressed to his, and his own brother telling him just where he wants him.

On his hands and knees, usually. Not that Brady wants to be degraded, but it’s what Matt would want.

Fuck.

His moans always come out strangled and choked, because the last thing Brady needs is his family hearing him moaning in delight, a silent _Matt_ curling his lips. 

Something deep inside of him wants Matt to slap a hand to his mouth and pin him down, fuck him ‘til he’s sore and he can’t walk, and tell him just how good he’s been. Because that’s the kind of attention Brady craves. That sick shit served on a silver platter from Matt. 

Of course, it’s wrong. Brady gets that. He totally does.

But it makes him want it more, because it’s something he just can’t have. 

[]

The first thing Brady notices when he stumbles into the kitchen one morning, his vision clouded with sleepiness, is Matt chopping up some fruit for a smoothie. There’s a thin white wire leading from his pocketed phone to his earbuds, hooked overtop of his ears. Brady immediately assumes he’s back in from a morning run, which - fuck that shit.

He also certainly notices that Matt is shirtless, the muscles on his back accentuated by a thin sheen of sweat. And holy shit, Brady’s totally into it.

“G’morning,” Brady mumbles, nudging him with his elbow as he makes his way towards the fridge, fishing out a carton of milk.

“Loser,” Matt sends back. 

Brady decides that it’s good-the-fuck-enough.

He scoffs, “Who pissed in your cereal?” Which is probably the stupidest shit he’s said since he was in middle school, but it makes it’s way past his lips anyways.

When Matt looks up from the chopped up fruit on the cutting board, Brady notices another thing. His face is fucking flushed, from the run, obviously, but Brady swears he can feel his heart thrumming in his ears. It is not a good feeling, like, at all. Because now he’s wondering what other activities get his face that red, and just how low that flush goes.

Matt rubs a palm over the stubble curving around his jawline before grinning. “Are you 12?”

“Shut up,” Brady presses the rim of the milk jug to his lips, to avoid thinking about just how Matt’s facial hair would feel rubbing against his inner thighs - _fuck_.

He watches from the corner of his eye as Matt sucks in a breath and drops his fruit into the blender. “Gross,” he mumbles.

“Sorry I’m getting germs all over the milk, holy shit,” Brady quips, sounding too sarcastic for his own good. 

“I meant it doesn’t matter t’ me,” is the last thing Matt says before he turns on the blender and Brady has to elude the kitchen to escape the ear shattering noise. 

The thing is, something clicks inside of him and he’s probably reading it wrong, but - somethings there.

[]

Brady has a dream.

And its god fucking awful.

Because while he has his eyes closed all he can feel are nails, blunt but menacing, scratching down his arms as a warm slide of lips catches his rationality and snaps it over its knee. All he does is make pathetic little noises followed by small jerks of his hips to lure friction from the body atop his. 

The body, heavy and warm, wet and desperate, grinding down against him in a room too humid to be so close, but neither of them care.

Neither of them. _Them_ \- himself and Matt, is what he guesses. From his choked off moans and the curly hair, and the smug looks, and calloused hockey fingers. 

Fingers that touch him everywhere but where he craves - _pleads_ \- to be touched. Ravishing him until he’s nothing but a moaning mess, until he’s writing and hot, until, until-

Brady wakes up with a burst of energy and sticky boxers.

[]

He’s no stranger to Matt’s questionable fashion sense, but Brady _is_ a stranger to Matt in shorts and, yeah, it drives him wild.

The summer means shorts, whatever. He gets that. But Matt’s shorts are _short_. Enough that Brady doesn’t have to try too hard to picture what they’re covering up.

Matt’s sprawled out on his bed, the thin fabric clinging to his legs with small rips in the denim stretching over his thighs, which Brady certainly doesn’t mind. And if this shit can’t get anymore backwards, Matt’s snug in a pink hoodie and snapback, which is really fucking with Brady’s head. 

He just wants to knock that hat off and rake his fingers through what he knows feels like miles of soft hair, pull that hoodie up, lick and bite down his torso, and-

“What’chu want?” Matt asks, his gaze never straying from his phone, like he can feel Brady standing at his door.

“Come play ball,” Brady says, sounding aloof. He can’t help it, not when everything Matt does make his dick twitch with excitement, despite the amount of times he jacks himself off. It’s fucked. _He’s_ fucked.

“Nah, I’m doing something.”

“Doing _what_?” He asks, because from what he can see, Matt’s casually scrolling through the Flames’ Instagram account. Pretentious little prick. 

Matt flicks his gaze towards him and sneers, like he can see exactly what Brady’s thinking, and he’s praying he can’t, because he knows he can feel himself burn up beneath his too-blue gaze. And it feels so fucking good.

“Come find out,” he challenges him, and as much as Brady wants to take the bait, he doesn’t.

“Get off your lazy ass and meet me outside,” he says.

“Nope.”

Brady furrows his brows. “Matt.”

“Nope.”

Now, if _that’s_ bait, Brady takes it so goddamn fast - practically jumps at the opportunity. Because in three long strides he’s hovering over Matt and fighting him for his phone. They’re kicking, scratching, punching, Matt’s hat gets knocked to the floor in the process, and when Brady does manage to snatch his phone, he throws it closer to the headboard of the bed, out of reach. 

The second Matt makes a move to grab it, Brady’s holding both his wrists down to the bed with all the strength he can muster - it definitely helps that he’s straddling Matt but, god, is that really a necessary detail? Brady’s mind is on far too many things at once.

“Outside,” he bites out.

“Real fucking classy,” he scowls. “You wanna go for walkies, baby?”

There’s a sharp jab of pressure in his arms as Matt tries pulling himself away, but it dies down again. 

“Let me go, Brady.”

“Nah.”

Matt scowls up at him, but despite his legs being free enough - he doesn’t kick, as much as Brady’s expecting it. “I swear to fucking—“

“What? You gonna call mom?” Brady curls his fingers tighter around Matt’s wrist until his nails are digging into the thin skin and he has him squirming underneath him.

“I—“

“Do it,” Brady grits out, and he doesn’t know what the fuck comes over him, but he dips closer to Matt, _lower_. “Show her how much of a fucking pussy you are.”

Matt’s chewing on his lip and it stirs something deep inside Brady’s stomach, the way he sucks in pretty and pink and lets it pop out swollen and red. He wants that bad. And he realizes he has to stop this before it gets too out of hand. It’s just - he’s clearly staring at Matt’s mouth, and he fucking laughs, real loud, right in Brady’s face. 

“Got me down once and you think you’re tough now, eh?” 

“It’s not like you’re fighting back,” Brady protests.

Matt tilts his head and looks towards the door. Then he peers back, smirks, and says, “What’re you doing here, man?” And Brady just stares, because his tone drops and it’s frightening, almost.

It catches him off-guard. “Huh?” 

And with that, Matt is rolling on top of him and Brady goes _willingly_. “You don’t really wanna go outside, do you?” He has his big hands on Brady’s shoulders and he’s holding him down like that, like Brady isn’t going to fight back. Because, well, he isn’t. 

“Why else would I—“ He cuts himself off when Matt lowers his hips, pressing right against Brady’s clothed dick, and send him straight to hell because Brady can _feel_ him. And that gets him good. 

“What’s in your pocket, Matt?”

He exhales, slow and shaky, and smirks at him. “Nothing you wouldn’t like.”

“Fuck... Matty, we can’t—“

“But you want to,” he finishes.

Brady just doesn’t know if he can give a shit anymore, doesn’t know if he has it in him to care about the repercussions of this, because that sounds like permission enough. Permission enough for him to grind his hips up to feel some of that delicious fucking friction. It’s like bliss, it would’ve been, if Matt hadn’t been snickering in his ear. 

But then again, he likes that too. The humiliation. 

“You’re sick,” Matt says, his voice rough. And it makes Brady’s skin prickle, if everything else hadn’t. He doesn’t push him away, though. Instead, he grinds harder against Brady, tucking his face in the crook of his neck.

“Oh, shit,” Brady breathes out, and his hands go straight to Matt’s ass, grabbing as much of it as he can through his shorts, which is enough to guide him along harder. 

Matt moves up to bite at Brady’s lower lip, hard enough to pull a whine from him, and it’s almost too much to handle.

“Fucking kiss me,” Brady whines because he can’t take the teasing, the waiting, the build up. He just wants it. All of it.

“lol but we’re brothers fam.”


End file.
